


you bring me right back down to the earth (from the promised land)

by mnabokov



Series: tel aviv [1]
Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-26 00:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10775268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnabokov/pseuds/mnabokov
Summary: Charles and Erik meet in Israel one summer. It’s just two bodies, two shadows in another room in another city; it’s just another memory in a lifetime. It’s just geometry -- the way the circles of their mouths meet, the angle formed when Erik spreads his legs to let Charles stand between them, the curve of Charles’ back as he bends over to touch Erik’s cheek.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [La nuit blanche pourrait durer... toute l'éternité... jusqu'à la fin de l'été](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14679365) by [Judith H (Elizabeth_Mary_Holmes)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth_Mary_Holmes/pseuds/Judith%20H), [Nalou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nalou/pseuds/Nalou)



> Title from "Love Love" by Take That.

They meet on a beach in Tel Aviv in the summer, when the sun stares down bright at the city and even the sky seems to yawn with a midday drowsiness; the beach is quiet and warm and still, bodies littering the shore and sand kissed by the sun.

Charles walks aimlessly, his bare toes digging into the sand with every step. It seems as though the beach is endless, the ocean is endless, the sand is endless. The summer? Endless.

To his right, the city skyline scrapes the baby blue sky. Pale pink and creamy white buildings are the teeth of a land that seems both lifeless and full of life, a nation of war and religion, a land of contradiction, especially now, here, under a merciless sun.

It has been four days and yet Charles can’t seem to get enough of the ocean here. He feels both restless and lazy.

Here, the sun beats relentlessly. Every day since he’s arrived, he’s gone down to the beach, walking through the markets, past vendors and leafy hanging plants, down to the strip of sand that borders the Mediterranean. His sunburnt skin has started to peel.

To his left, the ocean stretches out languidly. Many hours has Charles spent, floating in the shallow waters, staring up into the sky as the sky stares back down into him.

Today, however, he continues along the shoreline without stepping onto the ocean. It’s not quite as crowded here, since he’s not that close to the city. He’s walked far enough now that there are less beach towels staking claims in the sand and more open air, more room to breathe.

He walks on.

Sweat beads on his forehead, trickles down his spine; stringy strands of hair stick behind his ears.

His thin cotton shirt has begun to soak through when he sees three figures by a vendor underneath a shady tree. A few coins click in Charles’ pocket when he dips a hand inside, fishing for enough change for a beer.

It’s a few yards away from the ocean, across the hot sand, to get to the vendor, but even as Charles begins closing the distance between himself and a potentially cold bottle of beer, he feels a solid wave of frustration coming from a tall figure underneath the tree, almost like waves pulsing out of an epicenter.

Three men stand by the small cart of beer and water, two of which are engaged in what sounds like an angry conversation.

The third and final man, the vendor, looks up as Charles approaches. The vendor asks something in Hebrew, one of his thick eyebrows raising.

Charles points to the beer, eyes politely averted from the two other men still arguing loudly. “ _Bevakasha_ ,” he says. He pulls the coins from his pocket.

“Zev!” one of the other men interrupt, and the vendor jerks back to look at the men behind him.

Charles glances at the two men: one is tall and lithe, and the other short and stout. The vendor responds brusquely, but the taller man strides forward.

Charles feels a pulse of dark energy, of anger, and two of his fingers twitch. He just wants a beer.

The tall man says something roughly and the shorter man disagrees; the vendor shakes his head and the tallest man jerks his chin down. He mutters under his breath, “Can’t believe -- ” almost inaudibly, but Charles latches on the English quickly.

“Sorry my friend,” Charles steps towards the tall man, “But I was just -- ”

The tall man swings his head and his eyes are startlingly blue-green-gray.

 _Mein Gott, imbeciles, not again, not after --_ is all Charles receives before he receives the telepathic equivalent of a mirror.

The man seizes Charles up -- taking in his sweat-stained shirt, the metal of his watch ( _silver alloy),_ the sound of his accent ( _British)_ \-- in a split-second, a river of observation startlingly intense and rapid, before saying, sharply, “I am not your friend.”

Charles recoils slightly, both from the man’s words and also from the intensity of his thoughts. “Sorry,” Charles says, but not before raising his mental shields slightly, “But I just wanted -- ”

“Beer.” The man gestures at the vendor, clearly signaling the vendor to serve Charles. “Then you can leave.”

The vendor however, snaps back in Hebrew, and Charles shifts his weight uncomfortably. “Look, it’s perfectly alright -- ”

But the tall man counters the vendor with an equal amount of vehemence, and Charles bristles. _All of this, for a bottle. Honestly._

The vendor makes his way around the cart, eyebrows furrowed and fist clenched.

“It’s fine,” Charles says, moving to put himself between the two men, “I’ll just go.”

At that moment, Charles chooses to raise a hand, as if to put against the tall man’s shoulder and hold him back. The very second Charles raises his arm, the man with the piercing pale eyes lashes out, like a snake shooting out of tall grass, and grabs Charles abruptly by the wrist, his grip grinding into the fine bones there.

And Charles reacts instinctively, his free hand flying up to his temple, lips pursed as he reaches out --

 _Mein Gott, never should have come here, break wrist bone metal silver watch wrist bone_ \--

The tall man freezes.

Behind them, the vendor and the shorter man turn suddenly and walk off in opposite directions.

“You’re going to let me go, Erik,” Charles says. Charles didn’t know that he knew the other man’s name until he said it. “Then you’ll go home and -- ”

The metal of Charles’ watch twists suddenly, mirroring the grip of flesh and bone on Charles’ other wrist.

“What -- ”

Twenty years from now, Charles will describe it as a revelation; twenty years from now, Charles will say it was remarkable. But for now, in this moment, it feels like a lightning bolt, straight through the throat, into the gut; feels like Charles is looking into a mirror and finally seeing a _reflection_ instead of just shadow.

Suddenly, Charles sees.

A choked noise escapes from Charles’ throat and he releases his hold on Erik’s body and his powers as an afterthought.

Erik stumbles back, looking as shell-shocked as Charles feels. His face has gone pale and sweat glistens on his forehead. “What did you -- how did you -- ”

Charles laughs delightedly, blinking the sun and sweat out of his eyes. He tastes the salty sea air on his tongue. _Don’t you see, Erik?_ Charles projects.

“How did you do that?” Erik rasps, stepping back. His mind whirs like a serrated saw blade. The metal around them, Charles’ watch, the vendor’s metal cart, the beer bottle caps, begins to hum warningly.

“I’m just like you,” Charles answers, lips still curled in an enigmatic smile. “My name is Charles Xavier, and I’m just like you. You have your tricks, and I have mine.”

“You were in my head,” Erik says.

“You’re not alone, Erik,” Charles says. He steps forward and offers his hand.

Erik’s eyebrows furrow suspiciously. “How do you know my name?”

“Oh, my friend,” Charles says, “I know everything about you.”

 

* * *

 

They each snag a cold beer from Zev’s cart before walking towards the sand.

“Mutation,” Charles begins, and he can almost see Raven rolling her eyes at him, “It brought us from single-celled organisms to where we are today, and it gives us these powers.”

“You can read my mind,” Erik says, and his eyes are dark and sharp, even under the Israeli sun.

“Telepathy,” Charles agrees, sipping from his beer. “And you can control metal.”

Erik clenches his fists as if he wants to object and Charles carefully does not read his mind.

“I didn’t know that there -- there were others,” Erik says haltingly.

“There are,” Charles agrees.

“What you did,” Erik says. He raises two fingers up,  gesturing to his temple but not touching, then drops them. “When you froze me, and when you moved the others. You could do it again?”

“Well, yes. Holding more than one person still at a time is a bit much, but pushing them in the right direction isn’t."

Erik says hoarsely, “That’s incredible.”

Underfoot, the sand is hot against Charles’ bare soles. Overhead, the sun is hot against Charles’ cheeks. He flushes again with the praise. They toss their bottles, empty, into a nearby bin.

“Your mutation is quite fascinating as well,” Charles says, as an afterthought.

Erik stops suddenly, his feet -- bare as well -- sending a spray of sand up as he turns around to face Charles. Erik’s expression is unreadable.

“The ability to manipulate metals?” Charles continues, raising an eyebrow, “Fascinating, but the way you can understand -- ”

That thought will never be finished, because Erik interrupts by turning around as abruptly as he did before, except this time towards the concrete path away from the ocean; Erik strides away wordlessly but his abilities tug on Charles’ watch sweetly, seductively, in a way that belies his curt actions.

Without hesitating, Charles follows.

Erik walks purposefully, each stride longer than Charles, so that the latter has to break out into a jog as they reach the path that winds along the sand.

Erik walks up a road, seemingly at random, pushing past pedestrians and street vendors, weaving between fruit stands and vegetable stalls all while continuing to tug on Charles’ watch. Charles’ lips curl into a thoughtless smile as he brushes past a newspaper stand, and ducks under a series of hanging plants, eyes trained on Erik’s white cotton shirt. It smells like fried falafel and shawarma and amba as they dart in between food carts. The cement pavement bites Charles’ heels. His blood pumps dangerously quick in his veins --

It’s the thrill of the chase --

Charles jogs into an alleyway between two tall, creamy white buildings, his cheeks ruddy and his heart pounding. The shade of the alleyway feels like a gulp of cold water after baking in the summer sun for the entire day. “Erik, what -- ”

Erik turns around and grabs Charles’ wrist the second time that day, pushing him towards the wall of the alleyway. Erik all but looms over Charles. 

“What you did,” Erik says, and his eyes are curious, “Can you do it again?”

Charles licks his lips. Through the thin material of his shirt, Charles can feel the crumbling brick behind him drag against spine as Erik leans in, pushing Charles’ entire body back. There’ll be bruises on Charles’ skin tomorrow but he leaves his wrist in Erin’s iron grip and reaches up with his other hand to touch his temple and dip into Erik’s mind.

Now, Charles has to be careful. His hand trembles very, very minutely, and his lips are slick because he keeps wetting them, but his mind hums eagerly with the prospect of meeting Erik’s once more.

 _Like this?_ Charles’ teeth scrape over his mouth, catching his bottom lip into a tight bite. In the electricity of Erik’s touch -- the jagged, lightning-shaped knife of his thoughts -- Charles’ breath hitches.

Erik’s mind is warm and bright and _curious_. A series of images flash across the forefront of Erik’s thoughts -- ultramarine water lapping against white sand, a silver coin, black music notes sprawled across a page, a splatter of thick blood -- accompanied by a tentative thought in blocky handwriting: _can you_ \--

Charles’ grin is wide. _Yes_ , he thinks. This close, Charles can all but taste Erik’s sweat on his tongue, almost as easily as he can taste the ocean water, almost as easily as he can smell the brine and almost as easily as he can taste the hummus and amba. _Yes_ , he thinks, a thousand times.

He sends a tendril of a thought, small and warm, the mental equivalent of the brief press of skin against skin, and Erik grunts in surprise. He shifts slightly and their knees knock, Charles’ right hipbone brushing against Erik’s thigh. 

Charles concentrates, and then the dark shadows of the alleyway, the scents of Israeli street food, and the warm air melt into the green landscape of Oxford. A silver bell chimes somewhere in the distance and smell of jasmine wafts faintly through the air.

Erik makes a noise of surprise and Charles laughs at the feeling of his shock, his awe, his rapid-fire train of thought, quick and sure, not unlike a school of silver fish darting through an olive black sea.

Oxford blurs into black into blue into the bustling cityscape of New York City, the sky cloudy and overcast. Both of the men look up into the white sky as rain begins to sprinkle down, cool against their skin.

Charles moves his hand away from his temple and the shout of a street vendor alerts them that they are back in Tel Aviv, in the shade of two sagging buildings, the hot air rushing in to claim their skin once more.

Erik smiles with teeth. “My turn.”

And Charles skims over the shape of Erik’s thoughts briefly, just enough to recognize the shape of Erik’s single-minded intent.

Charles gladly sinks into the cool recesses of Erik’s mind, just as Erik begins stretching out his powers, his thoughts swelling and saturating with a dark red color that stretches back years, decades, eons -- Erik’s anger is something ancient, something slow and dark and primordial, something that echoes in the minds of all people.

But his powers are unlike anything Charles has ever felt. All around them, Charles feels the currents of electricity, zooming through strands of wire, every tap of a key like a trickle of sweat down skin, a whisper. Erik resonates with the very structure of each atom; Erik knows metal in a way Charles can only begin to comprehend. Metal and magnetism are -- are _everywhere_ : the metal wires, humming a song in concert with the electricity in the air, the electricity in their touch; even quieter is the low rumble of the electromagnetic fields that surround earth, encasing them in a nearly inaudible song; and finally, quieter still is the earth and all of the metal within, breathing softly, so as to not disturb its people.

And, at the forefront of it all, Erik is the conductor, bringing all of these sounds together in a cocktail that fits perfectly into the curve of Charles’ ear, metal transformed into song.

Charles shudders and Erik’s thoughts take on a darker color, a bitter taste.

The very ground breathes in rhythm with Erik’s heartbeat, like a reservoir of energy waiting to be wiretapped; Erik could move the earth if he wished, and Charles feels a rush of exhilaration at the very thought of it.

“My friend,” Charles rasps, his chest tight, “There’s so much more to you than you know.”

Erik’s telepathic response is the tightening of a grip, the reshifting of fingers around a sword hilt.

 

* * *

 

Erik finally pries his grip off of Charles’ wrist, one long, slender finger at a time, leaving Charles’ bones aching but his blood pulsing quick.

Without much discussion, they push away from each other.

(Charles hadn’t even realized how close they were -- Erik’s breath on Charles’ cheek, their hips angled towards each other -- until they left the shrouded alleyway.)

The colors and the smells of the streets beckon them, and they amble easily, weaving in between stands. Charles loops his hands into his pockets and Erik traces over the shape of a metal coin in his pocket with his powers, the action so thoughtless it must be habit. Charles remains close to Erik’s heels and his thoughts.

Charles purchases a slab of pita with za’atar and they tear the bread in half. They eat as they walk, strolling through the streets barefoot, their thoughts encircling each other cautiously, like wolves before a fight. Charles is careful to restrain himself, keeping his thoughts there, but only just enough so that Erik may recognize their design, read the lines that Charles writes out for him.

After purchasing a fresh orange, Erik’s thoughts turn towards the sea, and Charles follows obediently as they head towards the sand once more. The smell of citrus fills the air, mixing with salty ocean air and hot sun, as Erik begins to peel. Charles watches, fascinated by the silver flash of attention that darts through Erik’s mind, focusing first on the orange peel, the sea, the sand, the orange peel again.

Their bare feet touch the warm sand and a foreign question floats to the forefront of Charles’ mind. In response, Charles pushes a series of images to Erik: a dorm in Oxford, Raven laughing, long hours in the library. Charles spreads his arms in explanation, and the sun welcomes his embrace. “This is my last summer abroad,” Charles concludes, stretching his arms and back. His arms drop back down to his sides.

Charles turns, his head tilted in invitation, as if to say, _and you?_

Aloud, Erik asks, “Don’t you already know everything about me?” even though he has felt the distinct restraint of Charles’ thoughts.

Charles pauses for a moment, wonders if it would be too much to say, _I think, even if I were given all the time in the world, I would never know everything I wanted about you_. Boldly, he pushes something along those lines towards Erik.

Erik turns the thought over and over until it’s worn down, smooth as sea glass. “You know -- ”

 _\-- leave tonight, never should have come here, break wrist bone metal silver watch wrist bone, never never again_ \-- 

(Black music notes sprawled across a page, a splatter of thick blood; anger that has been boiling for years, dark and red and vitriol.)

Charles dips his chin. “I know.”

And so they walk.

 

* * *

 

It’s the first time either of them has ever met another adult mutant.

The heat beats down on them and the ocean murmurs sleepily in the background; time melts away and the world around them is slow.

At first they don’t talk -- why would they, when the meeting of minds conveys so much more?

Erik makes no move to hide the serrated edges of his thoughts, the razor-sharp focus of his scrutiny; he is wary but curious, never hesitating to bite or snap or flash a deflection or retort Charles’ way.

It’s a bit of a push and pull, and it’s the thrill of the chase that keeps Charles’ eyes sharp, his breath quick. Within the time that it takes for the sun to reach its zenith then drop back below the horizon, Charles learns how to avoid being cut on the knife of Erik’s thoughts, how to recognize the colors of Erik’s emotions, how the intricate molecules of copper and zinc delicately connect to form brass.

By the time Erik has learned the sound of Charles’ laugh, they’ve finally reverted back to words, if only to know each other’s voices as well as they know each other’s thoughts. And it feels as though they talk for hours and hours -- about what, Charles can’t remember and can’t find himself to care --

(Charles will look back on this day and he will see a younger version of himself eagerly sharing tales of mutation and DNA replication; Erik watches more than listens.)

\-- because it’s less about the words and more about the sounds, less about the thoughts and more of just the presence, the weight of another person, another _mutant_.

Darkness has begun to creep through the city as they start to head back.

The street vendors have begun packing up their day’s work, and although the sun has turned an umber orange, sweat sticks to Charles’ throat and Erik’s cheeks have pinked.

“You’re staying here by yourself,” Charles says, not quite like a question.

In response, Charles gets the mental image of a clean flat several blocks away from Charles’ own hotel, Erik’s floor and room in a Bauhaus room on the beach front. The address floats to Charles. Then, Erik thinks of several things -- a metal coin, the Mediterranean Sea, dark, dark blood -- before saying, “For now.”

They part ways amicably, Erik continuing down the beachfront while Charles heads deeper inwards, towards his hotel, with a promise of meeting the next day.

Even as they walk towards their respective destinations, Charles can feel the imprint of Erik’s mind on his own, like fingerprints in wet clay. He wonders how long the prints will take to dry, and wonders how long they will stay.

 

* * *

 

Charles came to Tel Aviv on a whim.

(He was meant to spend the summer in Thailand, but his flight had been delayed and he’d been anxious, ready to leave, so he hopped on the next plane. Tel Aviv it was.)

He’s spent the first few days meandering, wandering down the promenade, occasionally dipping into the water, wandering the streets and stepping occasionally into synagogues and churches alike, purchasing this and that from street vendors, milling about the shops and making stilted conversation.

This particular morning, however, calls for change of plans.

Charles makes his way down the promenade purposefully today, towards a particular Bauhaus building where he knows Erik is staying.

He’s about to enter the residential building when the lobby door swings open and Erik walks out. Charles seizes the other man up for a second -- takes in his khaki slacks and thin cotton shirt -- before Erik speaks.

“Care to join me for breakfast?” he asks aloud, even though Charles has already said yes in his mind.

It’s easy to let Erik slip back into his mind, as easy as letting Erik place a hand on the small of Charles’ back as a reminder.

They walk a few blocks away to a small shop close enough to the ocean so that the faint smell of seawater permeates the air, but far enough away that there is no sand underfoot. Erik waves to the owner and says something in Hebrew before gesturing towards a secluded table in the back.

“You wanted to know why I’m here,” Erik says without preamble, as soon as they sit down.

Around them, a few customers have already taken spots in the small shop, their conversation hushed.

“If you’d like to tell me,” Charles agrees. He wonders how long Erik spent thinking about what he’d tell Charles today.

Sunlight leaks into the store, spilling gently over their wooden table and bathing the whole room in light. Pots and pans clank in a kitchen behind them and the delicious, warm smell of baked goods fills the air. “I killed him,” Erik says.

Charles looks up as the storeowner approaches and sets down a platter of foods onto their table: various breads, two bowls of colorful Israeli salad, egg, shakshuka, cheese, grapes, pickled fish, a variety of spreads, and coffee. Charles smiles in thanks and the storeowner leaves.

“I killed him,” Erik says again, his eyes sharp.

“I know,” Charles says. He looks up, looks at Erik.

“Did it bring you peace? Did you feel,” Charles pauses, “Catharsis?”

Erik reaches out and sips from his coffee, his thoughts murky and dark.

Charles continues. “Or is that what you came here for?”

“Should I not have done it?” Erik says lowly. He reaches out to straighten his fork with a pinky. The beginnings of red stain his thoughts, like blood soaking through white bandage.

“There’s more to you, Erik,” Charles says, mirroring his companion and picking up a fork, “There’s more than just pain and anger -- there’s good too.” Charles scrapes his bottom lip with his teeth and taps the wooden table top with a ring finger. “I felt it.”

In his hand, Charles’ fork tenses, then releases, like a sigh.

The rest of their breakfast isn’t nearly as tense, although Charles can still feel the slippery edges of the shields Erik’s mind presents, naturally erected because of Erik’s constant, single-minded focus.

The breakfast is delicious -- the breads warm, freshly baked, and soft, the cheeses tangy and the fruit fresh and succulent -- and ends far too quickly. Erik pays with a few bills and they leave with nodded thanks to the owner.

“How long,” Charles asks once they’ve set off, back to Erik’s apartment in search of a few cigarettes, “How long will you be staying here?”

They walk back down the promenade the way they came, except now the beach has begun to fill with people. The summer heat draws crowds down to the ocean. Beachgoers eagerly flock down the promenade, causing Erik to lean into Charles. They walk closely, Charles’ right elbow brushing Erik’s arm every other step, and Charles does not expect an answer.

“Until I’ve found my peace,” Erik finally says, when they push away from the throng of people and head towards the white city, making their way through the building lobby and up a curved staircase, all the way up to Erik’s little flat.

Erik’s living quarters are Spartan, as expected. His flat is plain white and bare, save for pale sunlight and several bookshelves.

Charles invites himself in, and the door closes behind them with a lock.

Erik immediately gestures towards the balcony, which overlooks the ocean, where Charles heads as Erik fetches a few cigarettes. Erik’s mind has stretched out to feel the metal all around them.

There is no door to the balcony; only gossamer curtains frame the way to the oceanview. Charles brushes those thin curtains aside as he steps out to stand in the warm sun. The building is close enough to the ocean to smell salt in the air.

“You have a piano,” Charles says to the flat as a whole (Erik has disappeared into one of the other rooms) as he steps away from the balcony and towards the other side of the open space that is the living room. Indeed, a piano -- a black, upright one -- hides behind a barrier, tucked between the balcony and a series of bookshelves. Charles presses a few keys and, through Erik’s powers, feels the steel strings vibrate ever so faintly. Wind flits in through the open window and the pages of a concerto on the floor flutter. It’s Chopin. “Romantic,” Charles smiles to himself.

“Do you play?” Erik steps out from one of the rooms of the flat, carrying a pack of cigarettes in one hand and a lighter in the other.

“I used to. Do you?”

Erik shakes his head, moves towards the balcony. “I listen.”

Charles follows, then snags a cigarette from the pack, sticking it into his mouth. Erik plucks the lighter from the air and leans in close, one hand cupped around the fag and Charles’ mouth, the other sparking a flame into existence. When the cigarette lights, Erik pulls away, but Charles thinks he can still feel the touch of Erik’s fingers on his cheek.

A mélange of salt and smoke and silence curls into the air.

Erik reaches out telepathically a few moments later, as if to reassure himself that Charles were still there, and Charles welcomes the weight of his thoughts.

Erik’s body is still set to the clockwork of the hunt; even as he smokes, he watches. His worn hand curls around the metal bar of the balcony, and his eyes fix upon the streets, darting over every figure that walks pass. Even as Charles, from where he’s situated himself in the river of Erik’s thoughts, watches and feels the flurry of Erik’s observations ( _wind coming in from the East, sewer pipes cars watch wire metal, fire exit_ ), Charles can’t tell whether Erik sees himself as the hunter or the hunted, whether he watches to protect himself or to prepare for attack.

Either way, Charles settles into one of the metal chairs set out on the balcony, kicking his feet up on the railing and taking a long, slow drag from his cigarette. As he exhales, the smoke billows out in rings -- a trick he’d picked up at Oxford -- that float out over the city. Charles leans back and lets his eyelids slide shut, stretches out his mind.

The city of Tel Aviv bustles beneath them. From the ocean, there comes a general wave of contentment; from the city, a steady hum of rush and business; and from beyond, the muted breaths of minds too far away to fully recognize. He imagines the desert, the mountains, and further still -- the Holy Capital and Mesopotamia and the lost city -- wondering if he will ever see those places one day, or if he’ll have to settle for living vicariously through someone else. Charles wonders if telepathy is a muscle, to be exercised and stretched. If he practiced enough, could he be able to stretch his mind across desert and sea?

Charles takes another long inhale. The smoke fills his throat and he exhales slowly.

He thinks of the crawling ivies back at Westchester, the delicate green vines and the crumbling brick. Charles thinks that sometimes, his thoughts unfold the same way. He directs a tendril towards Erik, presses an image of leafy fronds and curling vines into his mind.

“The balcony could do with some decoration,” Charles comments. He sucks on his cigarette, then taps the metal railing with his ankle.

Erik turns away from the cityscape, his eyes fixing on Charles.

“Now?”

Charles shrugs. “I have the entire summer to waste.” And it’s true.

The nicotine and the hum of their powers has made Charles lethargic; there’s nothing to measure time aside from cigarette packs and the slow, even measures of Erik’s breathing.

Erik turns and paces around Charles’ chair, taking a stand right behind Charles. There’s a pause, a moment of stillness, then Erik’s hand comes down to rest on the metal backing of Charles’ seat.

The metal blushes warmly underneath Erik’s touch, like how skin reddens underneath a lover’s kiss. Although he doesn’t open his eyes, Charles readjusts his grip on his cigarette and shifts in his chair. The metal moves with him, curving gently underneath the slope of Charles’ back, his hips, his thighs. When both he and his seat have settled, the chair is much more comfortable.

Charles crosses his legs at his ankles, which rest on the balcony railing, and takes another drag from his fag.

Erik situates himself in the chair across from Charles; Charles doesn’t have to open his eyes, he can feel the movement through the shape of Erik’s thoughts, and the metal sings sweetly as Erik takes a seat. It feels as though they’ve known each other both for some time and no time at all.

Charles cracks his eyes open.

Smoke curls between them. Erik exhales carefully, his expression unreadable. Vibrations hum through the railing as Erik taps the metal with two fingers, echoing up Charles’ legs suggestively. The first beginnings of anger and fear leak into Erik’s thoughts when Charles interrupts.

“Did I ever tell you how I first discovered my telepathy?” Charles asks conversationally, as if they’ve known each other for summers and summers upon end.

“Never,” Erik answers easily, settling back into his chair. The anger bleeds out of him as quickly as it came -- Charles wonders how long it took Erik to learn to control his rage so well. “Tell me.”

“There was a pond on the land I grew up on. Fed into by a creek that wound through the property, about a few minutes trek behind the trees at the back of the garden.” Charles thinks of the spring breeze, and both he and Erik hear the oak leaves rustling gently. “The nanny would take me, let me run down to the creek while she watched.

“I think she knew, somehow, before I ever did. She’d ask me what the cook was going to make that night, or what color sheets she’d picked out for me that morning. Never in the mansion, but out in the property.”

Charles thinks of the purling creek, the dappled sunshine on rustling leaves, the warm rush of childish, childish joy. “I don’t mean to -- that is,” Charles frowns. He taps his cigarette before continuing. “The point is, not all powers manifest with anger and pain.” Charles sits up. “I believe that true focus lies between rage and serenity.”

Before Charles had even finished speaking, a barbed retort had formed in Erik’s mind. Ignoring it, Charles wiggles two fingers by his temple. “May I?”

 _Seems a bit late of you to ask now_ , Erik thinks wryly, but he dips his head in consent.

Charles treads lightly, sidestepping memories from Auschwitz, jumping directly to Erik’s childhood, before tapping gently on the memory of Edie Lehnsherr and her son lighting a Menorah. The memory floats to the front of Erik’s mind like a buoyant bubble.

Charles wipes his thumb across his cheek. “I accessed the brightest corner of your memory system,” Charles answers Erik’s unasked question. “Now,” he moves his chin toward the railing.

Erik plays with his cigarette between his fingers for a few moments, then his eyebrows furrow and his other hand rises.

Metal ivy tendrils crawl across the railing of the balcony, perfectly replicated, down to the fine hairs on each vine. Charles smiles and settles back in his chair, sticking his cigarette back into his mouth and inhaling in the sweet taste of nicotine, the salty tang of ocean and sweat and tears, the fresh breath of success.

Around them, the metal seems to hum: the metal of their chairs, the balcony railing, the building’s steel girders.

“You can move the world if you want to, my friend,” Charles says, watching the way Erik conducts his metallic instruments with a twist of his palm.

“And you?” Erik turns to look at Charles. “What can you do?”

“I think you know.”

“You could raze this city with the blink of your eyes.” Erik places his cigarette delicately between his lips and Charles can’t stop himself from eyeing the curve of Erik’s mouth. “You could tear me apart.”

“As could you.”

Charles sees the glint of light off of a serrated dagger, off of a metal coin, and receives the vague impression of a butchering -- _schweinebauer,_ pig farmer -- before Erik laughs curtly. “I tear them apart from the outside, but you? You tear them apart from in here.” Erik taps his head then takes a drag from his cigarette.

Charles shifts in his seat, but not because the metal is uncomfortable.

 _Imagine what we could do together_ , remains unspoken, but both of them hear it nonetheless. He’s not sure whose thought it is.

The rest of Charles’ cigarette is finished in an amicable silence, but the colors of their thoughts have begun to blend in less of a conversation and more of a collaborative work of art. At the moment, Erik has begun to paint a portrait of a new world: one of metal and mutation.

How long they spend out on that balcony, chainsmoking cigarettes and soaking up the sun, Charles does not know. Perhaps an afternoon, perhaps an entire summer.

Charles flicks his cigarette stub to the floor, and crushes it with his heel. Then he stands languidly and runs a hand along the patterned railing. The rumble of the cars and the cacophony of the ocean melt into white noise.

Erik turns his thoughts away from a mutant utopia and towards the feeling of flesh against metal, of fingers against crawling ivy. The shift is like a switch, all of Erik’s focus suddenly on Charles. Charles runs his tongue along his teeth and drags his fingers along the railing. Then he turns, to face Erik, who is still sitting in his seat.

One step forward, and another, and then Charles’ knuckles brush against the metal arm of Erik’s chair, which curls up to meet his touch. The metal slithers into the shape of a slender serpent, crawling out of the iron chair like a golem crawling out of clay, which snakes up Charles’ hand, threading through fingers carefully.

“I should go,” Charles says, even as he watches the metal snake dance. Charles thinks of snake charmers.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Erik asks.

Charles tears his eyes away from the hypnotic dance. “Tomorrow,” he agrees.

 

* * *

 

Neither of them have any obligations for the rest of the summer.

Charles has no school work, no job, only Oxford funds to waste away. Erik has no tracks to trace, no ties to hold them down.

“I came to Jerusalem, first,” Erik says, over another breakfast in another shop in another part of Tel Aviv. It is another day. “I thought -- ”

There’s a pause.

“You didn’t find what you were looking for.” Charles twirls his knife in his fingers. “You came here, instead.”

Erik tears a piece of bread apart with his calloused fingers. Sunlight pours over their table, between the spill of Charles’ sleeve and the curve of Erik’s elbow, shining off the porcelain plates and metal forks. An orange peel curls in between their plates like a comma, a pause.

Today, they’ve brought a pack of cigarettes and two worn, paperback books along preemptively. The three things sit on top of each other, the cigarettes on top, near Charles’ elbow. Perhaps, after breakfast, they will smoke, and read -- each of them their own book. Perhaps, after that, they will head down to the ocean.

Erik dips his head in acknowledgment.

They finish the shakshuka eagerly, and Charles spreads the last of the hummus on a piece of fresh bread. He sends a hum of contentment towards Erik impulsively.

A light zephyr whispers through the shop, through the open windows and door, carrying in salty air. Charles’ fingers tap against the table; he itches for a smoke.

Erik finishes the last of his bread and reaches into his pocket, places a lighter on the table.

Smoke curls between them, cloyingly, as Charles lights a cigarette. Erik reaches out and rolls a plump grape between his fingers. After he tosses it into his mouth, his teeth break the skin with satisfying release. Then, Erik reaches out and takes his paperback novel. The dry pads of his skin rasp against the worn paper, and Charles watches as the other man begins to read.

The world carries on around them, and Charles is content to sit and watch.

(For now.)

Later, they will make their way back to Erik’s flat. There, Charles will sit at the piano and attempt to pluck out the first few chords of Chopin’s first concerto, while Erik listens. The metal strings of the piano will sing sweetly and Erik will turn the pages for Charles.

And later still, they will walk down to the beach, and walk down the promenade, elbows not quite brushing. Here, Charles talks about genetics -- “Mutation brought us from single-celled organisms…” -- for hours and hours, mapping the human chromosome and other dreams like that. They walk back and forth, up and down the strip, their feet covered with thick callouses to protect them from the burning sand. The sun peers over their footsteps; and the sky and the summer are endless.


	2. two

It started with his wrist.

It started in that shrouded alleyway, that very first day that they met, when Erik’s fingers encircled Charles’ fine bones and gripped tight, tugged him close and pushed him against that crumbling brick.

It started then, because now -- as Charles locks the door to his hotel room, shrugs out of his clothes and steps into the shower -- Charles thinks about that moment.

Specifically, he thinks about the sharp taste of Erik’s cologne on his tongue, the rough callouses of Erik’s hands, the suggestive brush of Erik’s thigh against Charles’ hip.

And Charles thinks about the way Erik’s lips wrap around a cigarette, the way his hands caress the thin paper pages of a book.

Of course, Charles could look. Of _course_ , Charles could look, but at this point, Erik knows the feel of Charles’ mind like a shark knows blood, and Charles values their -- their friendship too much to risk anything now.

(He does not think about what will happen when the summer will end.)

 

* * *

 

They fall into orbit with one each other, effortlessly.

They don’t talk about it, but it must be there somewhere -- somewhere in their intermingled thoughts, the canvas of their interactions -- something that says _I’m staying_ and _we’re here, now_ and that is all.

There must be something because they have an unspoken agreement where they meet at least once a day, for an hour at least. Sometimes they sit in silence, simply soaking in the presence of another mutant, another person, another day; other times, they discuss philosophies vehemently -- topics range from mutant segregation to nonviolent protest to transcendentalism. It’s hard to define what they are, but then again, things with Erik are never easy.

In the mornings, the sun and the city rise early, well before Charles does. By the time Charles falls out of his bed, the streets bustle with traffic. Some days, if he rouses particularly late, Charles walks down to the ground floor, out of the hotel to see Erik leaning against the wall across the road, waiting with his hands in his pockets, stance casual but mind constantly alert.

They walk to a shop normally, either carrying books or cigarettes or both, and settle in for breakfast. Their conversations can be only a few words or heated debates, can carry on for the entire day or last for only a heartbeat. Either way, the company is comfortable.

Other days, Charles will wake well after noon, but Erik will be gone, a quiet silence in the back of Charles’ head. Those days, Erik takes his motorcycle and leaves the city, leaving Charles to his own devices. From the concrete streets to the small bakeries and shops, Charles wanders through the city, subtly using his telepathy to ease his interactions. Where Erik goes, it does not matter. 

But the evening is a time reserved for the two of them. They take the spiral staircase up to Erik’s flat and settle themselves on the balcony. Every evening the Israeli sky treats them to a new spectacle as the sun sets, and the two of them watch languidly, blowing smoke into the air or sipping from a shared bottle of wine. If he’s feeling particularly artistic, Charles wanders over to coax a few sweet refrains of Liszt from the piano.

It’s been a few days (it must have been, at least, because one particularly blue evening, Charles leans in to light Erik’s cigarette and feels the scratch of stubble on Erik’s cheek) of acclimatizing and acquainting. Charles has seen several of Erik’s personas (Erik Lehnsherr, Max Eisenhardt) and he knows that Erik loves citrus fruits; Erik has seen the photo of Raven in Charles’ wallet (the only photo in Charles’ wallet; Erik has none) and knows that Charles has a particular weakness for jazz and pastries alike.

It’s been a few days together when Charles decides to invite Erik over to his hotel room for the first time.

After registering the most important items in the room ( _mini fridge, bed springs, fire extinguisher, two windows)_ , Erik directs his attention to the turntable perched on the corner desk.

“I have a few records in my suitcase,” Charles nods, flipping open a pack of cigarettes he’d bummed from Erik.

Erik hums in acknowledgement and leafs through the aforementioned records while Charles cracks open a window, which does not boast a view as nice as Erik’s balcony, and lights a fag.

Brahms’ third symphony comes on with a crackle as Erik places the needle onto the vinyl. Charles sticks his cigarette into his mouth, holds it there without breathing in as he walks to the single queen bed, where he’s set up a chessboard on the lumpy mattress. Charles gets onto the bed ungracefully on his hands and knees, his sunburnt skin scratching against his clothes and the comforter, and sits his bum down with a huff. He reaches out and tugs his left knee in underneath himself, scratching his blistered ankle against the rough comforter. The comforter underneath him is brown, and so is the scratched chessboard.

Charles tugs up his jeans and itches his hip absentmindedly, nails digging into the sunburnt skin there. Erik looks away.

The evening breeze wanders into their hotel room in the middle of a chess game. In his head, Erik hums along with the clarinet solo and Charles smiles inwardly.

He’s not in Erik’s head as much now, necessarily -- it’s just the broad net for general emotions that Charles employs -- but sometimes Charles hears things that Erik thinks particularly loudly.

 _If I take his knight, then I can move my queen_ , interrupts Charles’ train of thought.

Charles looks up, his cigarette dangling between his lips. Erik’s expression is unreadable. Charles doesn’t know if Erik had meant him to hear that or not.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

Erik chuckles, his lips pulling upwards attractively. 

Charles smiles in spite of himself. He glances down at the board and moves his knight.

While Erik contemplates his next move, Charles eyes a strand of hair that’s fallen out of place in Erik’s hairline. The man pushes it back and Charles looks back down at the game.

Strains of Brahms echo against peeling wallpaper, and plucked bass notes float up to the ceiling only to hit the popcorn ceiling and fall down like raindrops.

Erik takes Charles’ knight swiftly, then rises to find a drink.

Charles mulls over his next move as Erik pries the lid off a bottle of scotch sitting on the counter. He takes a swing, his Adam’s apple bobbing once, twice, as he drinks.

“Careful now,” Erik warns, almost teasingly, as Charles’ fingers hover over his rook.

Charles shakes his head good-naturedly and moves his piece. Erik hands Charles the bottle but keeps the metal cap. In his palm, the metal cap twists and folds fluidly.

“It’d be easy for you to move the earth,” Charles muses.

“Is that so?”

“Mhm. Harder to manipulate something so delicate though.” Charles nods towards the bottle cap. “Imagine being able to resonate with the very molecules, rearranging their structure.” Charles shakes his head. “Much more difficult, I imagine.”

“A challenge, then,” Erik dips his head, his eyes fiery.

“Indeed."

“What of you? What is your challenge, Charles?”

Charles takes a long puff from his cigarette, blowing out the smoke in the shape of rings, and relishing the curl of amusement Erik sends his way for them.

“You,” Charles says finally.

“Me?”

“You.”

“What kind of challenge would that be?”

“Wouldn’t be a challenge if I told you, would it?”

Erik smirks. “Cocky."

“Confident.”

Erik leans forward and takes Charles’ queen. “Check.”

Charles swears under his breath, but also feels a giddy thrill at the prospect of finally, _finally_ , a decent opponent to play against.

They play long into the evening, finishing their third or fourth game (Charles lost count) as the sun finally slips below the horizon.

“Christ,” Charles says, staring mournfully at the board. Erik beat him, once more.

Erik smirks. “Going to study a few Lasker games before tomorrow?”

“No,” Charles says, finishing off his cigarette and flicking it into an ashtray, “We’re going out for drinks.”

Erik rises agreeably. “On you, then.”

They’re both a little buzzed already, ambling down the darkening streets, past closing shops and packing vendors, as they head towards a bar near the south end of the promenade. Erik ushers Charles in, and they find a little table in the back corner, all to themselves.

Erik says something to a passing waitress in Hebrew, and the woman laughs, nodding.

The night is warm and young, heady and sultry around them; the air smells of alcohol and cigarette ash and vaguely of reefer, mixing in a potent cocktail that goes straight to Charles’ head. He grins even though he didn’t understand the joke, and leans forward, over the table.

Charles knows that Erik doesn’t often do this -- this self-indulgence -- and it makes Charles’ chest sort of swell with the knowledge that Erik has come to enjoy Charles’ company. Tonight, Erik’s eyes are dark and his lips are twisted into a half-smirk. The waitress comes by with two glasses of something amber, and Erik reaches for his drink right away. Charles watches the cold glass press against Erik’s bottom lip before he drags his gaze away.

Around them, the bar brims with conversation and energy, patrons laughing and joking and swaying to some music in the background.

“Cigarette?” Erik asks, and Charles looks back at Erik.

“Yes, thank you.”

Erik hands Charles a cigarette but not the lighter; Charles sticks the fag in his mouth and leans in closer, watches the flame spark and then die. Erik’s ring finger brushes against the edge of Charles’ mouth as Erik leans back.

As Erik lights his own cigarette, the orange flame flickers appealingly against the column of his throat. Charles blinks and thinks that he’s had too much to drink tonight. He reaches for his glass again anyway.

As the night goes on, the bar only becomes more crowded, and smoke and sweat clings to the air. Erik says something half-clever and Charles laughs, watches as Erik unbuttons the top button of his polo shirt to reveal the dip of his throat underneath. When Charles stands up to use the restroom and his knee brushes against Erik’s thigh, he pretends it is an accident.

The cold bathroom with its white tile is a refreshing breath from the smoky bar. Charles stands in front of the mirror and splashes cold water on his face, drying his hands with a paper towel before exiting.

Charles is tugging on his collar as he exits the bathroom, mind still replaying the image of Erik’s throat swallowing a gulp of drink over and over, when he accidentally bumps into another person in the cramped hallway.

“Christ, sorry,” the woman exclaims, “I didn’t -- fuck, right, no English, I -- ”

“Oh, no,” Charles smiles, “I do -- that is, I’m American, too.”

She steps back and looks at Charles for half a second before clucking her tongue and saying teasingly, “But you’ve a British accent.”

“I’ve heard it’s charming,” Charles says, and it’s all too easy --

(It’s a bit of a push and pull, and it’s the thrill of the chase that keeps Charles’ eyes sharp, his breath quick.)

\-- to smile at this woman, who laughs loudly, throwing back the line of her throat.

Charles adds something else half-heartedly and before retreating back to where Erik’s just finished leaving a few bills on the table.

“Alright?” Erik asks. “I think we’re about done.”

“Right,” Charles says, and he pauses for a split second, wondering how to phrase his next words. “I think, ah,” he glances back to the woman standing by the bar, “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Right,” Erik echoes, eyebrows creasing for a fraction of a second. “Good night, Charles.” And with that, Erik exits smoothly, walking steadily as though he hadn’t consumed twice as much alcohol as Charles did that night.

Charles takes the woman back to his hotel -- she giggles all the way back and her waist is impossibly slender; Charles relishes in the feeling of another body against his own.

He takes her back to the hotel and pushes the chessboard off the single queen bed, pieces flying to the floor as the two of them collapse on the bed in a haste.

Charles fucks her on that small bed, comes with his mouth open against the skin of her neck. His fingers fumble and Charles reaches down to rub her with the pad of his thumb, over and over and over and when she comes, Charles thinks of Erik’s calloused hands, the fine line of Erik’s neck.

The next morning, Erik’s waiting outside the hotel lobby, his hair pushed back and sunglasses on, looking unfairly put-together after a night of drinking.

Charles pushes that thought into Erik’s mind and drags a hand blearily over his eyes.

Erik chuckles and they begin to walk. Other than this, neither of them mention last night again.

 

* * *

 

Charles wakes particularly early another morning. He’s not sure why, but the sun has just begun to peek over the horizon when he rouses.

(It’s been exactly a week since he’d met Erik. It feels like both seven days and seven years.)

He stretches his muscles and then his mind, his back popping satisfyingly and his brain filtering out Tel Aviv’s morning thoughts. Charles knows that Erik often wakes early to exercise near the beach, but today, Charles finds Erik’s thoughts in a local bakery a few streets away.

After brushing his teeth and arranging himself to look somewhat presentable, Charles decides to wander down to find his friend.

The bakery isn’t open yet, but Erik catches a vein of Charles’ thoughts as the latter approaches, and the door swings open for Charles.

He’s not really sure what to expect, maybe Erik’s friends with the baker, but he doesn’t expect to see a little girl, four or five years old, helping Erik braid dough in the back of the bakery.

The baker’s singing loudly while preparing the oven when Charles enters the back room.

“Ah, Charles,” Erik greets, then introduces him to the baker and the baker’s daughter in Hebrew. (Charles gathers as much from Erik’s mind.) The baker’s infectiously cheery greeting immediately puts a smile on Charles’ face, and he stands on the other side of the girl -- Nona is her name -- to watch Erik mold the dough, shape it for baking later.

It’s fascinating to see how Erik interacts with Nona, and surprisingly, refreshing to be in the presence of other company. Charles catches snatches of their conversation from their minds but is mostly content to pull up a wooden stool, sit, and watch years of tradition come to life in the tiny kitchen.

Erik laughs at something Nona says and then rises to wash his hands. When he comes back, Nona has white flour in her hair and a sunny grin on her face. Charles grins back when she looks at him. Erik comes and stands by Charles’ stool, and makes a pithy observation in Hebrew that Nona delightedly shrieks at. Erik chuckles and claps Charles’ on the back, right between his two shoulder blades.

“Erik,” the baker calls over his shoulder. In Hebrew he asks, “Have you been down to the river yet?”

Erik answers but Charles doesn’t dip into his mind for a translation because Erik’s palm still rests hot and heavy on Charles’ back and Charles has to clear his throat and remind himself of where he is.

Nona chimes in with a loud comment and Erik’s attention shifts to her; he steps away and his hand drops from Charles’ back as he reaches in to help her knead the dough.

They leave with flour on their clothes -- although luckily, both of them are wearing white, cotton shirts today -- and a basket of freshly baked bread that dangles on the crook of Charles’ elbow.

“You’re good with children, my friend,” Charles remarks as they head down the street. It’s another beautiful day.

Erik muses for a second and Charles catches a murmur of _I’ve always wanted -- could’ve been_ \-- before Erik’s focus turns to a woman at a nearby vendor.

“Shalom!” the woman calls out, approaching them.

Erik steps closer to negotiate while Charles hangs back, admiring the row of olives and dried fruits. The smell of spices fills the air --  jars of za’atar, caraway and baharat -- and burlap sacks of grains line the stalls enticingly.

Finishing up the purchase, Erik bids farewell to the vendor.

“Alright?” Charles looks up as Erik approaches, and Erik nods.

They head back to Erik’s apartment. They’re meandering through the streets when Erik says, “Would you like to go to the river today?”

“The one the baker was talking about?”

Erik nods.

Charles nods as well. “Alright.”

“We can bring the food,” Erik gestures to the basket -- decorated with one of Nona’s blue ribbons -- on Charles’ arm.

“Like a picnic,” Charles smiles faintly.

Erik snorts. “Like a picnic.”

Erik’s motorcycle waits out on the street in front of the Bauhaus building, and Erik starts the engine with a twitch of his finger. Charles admires the ease with which Erik applies his powers for a second before following Erik’s movements and swinging a leg over the side of the bike, sliding up in the seat behind Erik.

For a moment, as the engine purrs and Erik waits for the oncoming traffic to slow, everything seems alright. Then engine revs and Erik speeds off as soon as there’s a break in the traffic. Charles swears and grabs onto Erik’s shoulders to hold on, and can _feel_ the flex of Erik’s back muscles with every movement through Erik’s thin white shirt.

 _It’s not far_ , Erik thinks loudly, and Charles quickly pushes all inappropriate thoughts out of his mind.

The wind whips through their clothes as Erik speeds out of the city. Charles holds onto Erik’s shoulders for a while but the height difference between them starts to make Charles’ arms sore, so he switches down to Erik’s impossibly slender waist. At first, he leaves a comfortable few inches between their bodies, but Erik can literally control all of the traffic on the road, and drives like it too, so Charles is forced to sit close and hang on.

It’s easy to forget their proximity though, because as the dense throng of buildings begins to give way to more space and clean desert air, the river winds up to meet them, rippling along the dirt road. And the river is beautiful, lined on either side with lush green grass and the shade of swaying trees.

They pull off the road a few miles in, and Erik kills the engine with a tap of his ankle, dismounting gracefully. Charles follows suit and they walk down to the grass, close to the river.

“It’s beautiful,” Charles decides, taking a seat in the shade under a short tree. Erik nods his agreement, coming to stand by the shade as well. After a second of looking out over the view, Erik toes off his shoes and pads into the river until the water laps at his ankles.

Charles lets out a sigh of content, leaning back in the shade and pulling out a piece of pita to dip in hummus. A bird nearby calls. Charles receives a steady stream of thoughts from Erik’s direction. They are the only bodies around for some distance.

Erik squats in the river, and it’s almost impossible to see him with the grassy knoll between them, but Erik’s mind reaches out, an open palm, and Charles takes it.

Erik watches the sun glint off the water -- _light glinting off a dagger, off a silver coin_ \-- and then looks at the collection of pebbles underneath. He dips a hand into the cold water _\-- schweinebauer_ \-- and watches the water roll over his fingers.

There’s metal: in the water, in the earth, in the air.

“Can you feel it?” Charles murmurs, to himself, but he knows that Erik will hear. As Charles stares up into the sky, the tree sways and the sky is an endless blue.

Erik’s focus sharpens like a knife in response, and he reaches out to pick up a pebble that’s laced with iron. Underneath the sun, it’s easy to pick out the gray flecks. Erik wonders where this rock came from, where it has been -- the ocean, the desert, the mountains.

For a few minutes more, Charles relishes the quiet shade and the soft grass beneath him. Erik continues sifting through the rocks, his powers caressing the metal in each one gently. It’s hypnotic for Charles to stare up into the sky and feel the flex of Erik’s powers.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, but Charles eventually sits himself up and climbs down to the river, to where Erik squats in the river still.

“What does it feel like?”

Charles sits down on the grass and chucks off his shoes, dipping his toes into the cold water.

“You’re in my head,” Erik raises an eyebrow. “You know.”

“To really know, I’d have to be in -- in every part of your mind, all at once.”

Erik looks as though he wants to say more about that, but then turns back to the metal in his head. The weight of the sedimentary stone is comforting, but there’s only a bit of iron there, so it’s tricky for Erik to float the rock up from his open palm.

“It’s just,” Erik pauses, trying to find the right words. He sifts through his vocabulary -- English and Hebrew and German and Spanish -- until he’s left with fine silt.

Charles hums in agreement.

Then Charles stands and steps into the river as well, bending over to pick up another rock. “Can you feel it?” Charles brushes a thumb over the smooth surface.

“Yes,” Erik narrows his eyes.

Charles digs his toes into the fine silt of the river, feeling the dirt and mud squelch. The movement echoes faintly in Erik’s mind. Sunlight beats down on them, but neither of them moves towards the shade.

With a splash, Charles tosses the pebble back into the river, then wipes his wet hands on his jeans. “Do you think, one day, you’d be able to feel -- ”

Erik receives the thought of the whorls on Charles’ thumb, the lines of his fingerprint. Erik frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You can sense wherever the metal is,” Charles explains, stepping closer, “But can you feel what it feels?”

“It’s metal, Charles,” Erik stands still even as Charles sways close -- almost too close --

“I mean,” Charles feels his heart skip with the thought of what he’s going to do next -- it’s the _thrill_ \-- “Could you feel the arches and the loops and the whorls?” He reaches out and, before he can think better of it, presses his thumb against the metal buckle of Erik’s belt. Charles’ knuckles brush against line of Erik’s trim waist; he can taste Erik’s cologne. “Be able to recognize whomever touches it?”

Erik watches Charles, curiously.

“Maybe,” Erik says finally, without so much as a twitch of his eyebrow.

Charles exhales and steps back. “Imagine,” he says, “if you could.” Charles turns and heads back up the knoll, back to the tree.

Erik waits a moment -- his mind turning over the feel of Charles’ thumb on his belt buckle, turning over the idea of being able to resonate with every atom of metal, being intimate enough to be able to recognize the very touch of another -- before following.

They have a picnic of sorts by the river.

Charles finishes his piece of pita and offers the rest to Erik, who tears into it gratefully. The basket is heavy with the bread, a jar of olives, several containers of dried fruit, fresh dates and pears and persimmon, and cheese. Charles leans against the tree, legs extended and crossed at the ankles, and Erik comes to sit next to him; Erik’s kneecap brushes against Charles’ thigh as he folds his legs, crisscross, but neither of them moves away. They talk and they eat and they watch the river flow.

By the time the last of the olives and the fruit are gone, it’s well past noon. Charles swings the empty basket, Nona’s ribbon fluttering, while they walk back to the motorcycle.

Another afternoon, Charles takes Erik out to another bar, a much smaller, much more crowded one, where Erik has to snag Charles’ sleeve between two fingers and hold on so they won’t be separated by the crowd. They’re in the tourist part of town; Charles hears thoughts in English and Spanish as well as Hebrew and Arabic.

Charles buys the first two rounds for them. By the time they’re thoroughly pissed, the man smoking next to them offers Charles his joint -- “Have a hit, man,” he yells over the din -- and Charles gladly accepts.

At his side, Erik leans close, watching.

“Keep me steady, yeah?” Charles leans in to say, and when Erik nods, “Of course,” Charles feels the rasp of stubble against his cheek. Erik pats Charles’ knee underneath the bar, and when Charles sends a telepathic murmur of assent, Erik leaves his hand there.

(But it’s not like _that_. Charles may be sloshed but he’s still a telepath, and he knows that Erik doesn’t mean anything by it; it’s -- it’s camaraderie, nothing more.)

Charles passes the joint back and forth a few times with his new acquaintance, then Charles and Erik move towards a booth at the back of the bar.

Everything is comfortable and slow and soft: the yellow hue of lights is warm and the shadows flicker gently; there’s peeling daisy wallpaper and golden-amber splashes of alcohol on cotton t-shirts, ambient conversation and gentle voices that linger quietly. Music plays in the background and Charles pretends it’s slow jazz. Erik drapes his arm around the back of their booth and Charles does not lean back.

When another round of drinks comes by, both Charles and Erik snag a glass. When they clink their glasses, it feels as though they are toasting a revolution.

A pile of metal bottle caps grows on the table, two then four then six and eight. Charles grabs one and laughs when it melts into a coin in his hand.

“Can you feel this?” Charles asks, pressing his thumb into the metal. He turns and looks at Erik. When the man doesn’t respond, Charles thinks that one day, Erik will know Charles by touch alone.

Erik leans forward suddenly, his eyes bright, and Charles knows he’s high when he can’t look away. “Do you know what I can feel?” Erik asks. Charles throws up his shields and wills his body not to respond.

Instead, Charles touches his forefinger to his temple, lets his middle finger brush against his lip: Erik is thinking of the ocean, and _“Oh_ ,” Charles says.

The beach is completely deserted when they finally stumble out of the bar, the moon white and the ocean and the sand a deep deep blue. Erik toes out of his shoes and steps into the crashing water.

“Can you really?” Charles frowns.

“Thousands and thousands of miles of cable, Charles,” Erik says, facing the open sea, “Of course.”

“It’d be more impressive,” Charles slurs, “If you could understand every signal sent.”

Erik looks over his shoulder. His lips quirk. “Not yet.”

Erik reaches out telepathically, and Charles feels what he feels: the submarine communications cables, buried underneath the seabed, miles and miles of steel wire, aluminum water barriers, copper tubings. The sea thrums with energy, carrying electricity and information; it feels electric and Charles feels reckless.

“Careful,” Erik warns, as Charles tugs off his jeans and shirt, pries off his shoes.

“Oh, it’s just a dip,” Charles grins wolfishly. “Come on, then.”

It’s dark and it’s impulsive; Charles is high and he welcomes the cold rush of the ocean, sobering him. Erik follows soon after, stripping down to his black boxers.

They wade out until the salt water laps at their throats. Overhead, the stars watch them serenely.

Charles swims out eagerly. Charles feels Erik’s mind, a few yards away. When Charles stretches out telepathically, Erik welcomes his touch: in Erik’s mind, the iron in Charles’ blood is warm and the metal of the sea is cold. The ocean is endless, the sky is endless, the summer is endless.

Eventually, they finally swim back to the shoreline, where they clamber out of the wet water and collapse there on the wet sand, panting like dogs, feeling the wet sand, the warm earth, the warm thoughts of the people around them, Charles and Erik’s minds melted into each other like soft wax.

And another night, Charles and Erik make their way to the baker’s house, on the outskirts of the city, for dinner. Charles places his hands on Erik’s waist loosely and they drive out on Erik’s motorcycle.

The food is good and the company even better. Though Charles can’t understand, he’s content to let the thoughts of the family wash over him -- the baker and his wife and his daughter and Erik.

Charles sits across from Erik, between them, mountains of delicious dishes: tangy baba ganoush and blood-red shakshuka, grilled lamb and chickpeas and schnitzel, pickled vegetables and ripe olives. The wooden table creaks with the weight of the dinner. Candlelight flickers gently in the background and the desert wind creeps in through the open window. The dinner is simple but delicious. At one point, during a lull in the conversation, Erik’s thoughts wander back to his mother. Charles waits for the characteristic stain of red and, when there is none, Charles brushes his ankle against Erik’s leg in the darkness underneath the table. Charles and Erik leave with leftovers and full bellies.

One evening, Charles brings his record player to the Bauhaus building. When he reaches Erik’s floor, the door is unlocked.

Erik waits out on the balcony, smoking curling around his fingers and lips. Charles is reminded of those black and white movies, thinks that Erik would fit right into one of those Hollywood pictures with his cheekbones and sharp jaw and eyes.

Charles puts Rimsky-Korsakov on the record player and sprawls across his metal chair.

The sky looks purple and bruised, raw and ripe. Charles and Erik don’t speak, and their silence is comfortable. They watch the sun set.

 

* * *

 

Erik lives a sparse lifestyle, Charles knows this. It comes from years and years of living with the hunt, which boils away everything except for what is absolutely necessary.

But here, Erik has his indulgences: sweet fruits, fine wine, quality cigarettes, and good music. Charles finds another indulgence a few days later, when he pads into Erik’s bathroom one bright morning.

Erik’s out for a run -- he always runs in the morning -- and when he comes back, his place is full of sunlight and silence. When Erik heads to the bathroom, he finds his porcelain bathtub full to the brim with warm water and Charles.

Neither of them says anything when the bathroom door swings open: Erik doesn’t apologize for the interruption and Charles doesn’t move to cover up.

Then, Charles says, “Sorry,” not really sorry at all, because it really is a lovely tub, “Hope you don’t mind.”

Erik glances over his body --

(Charles can’t help skimming over the very surface of Erik’s thoughts -- _pink skin skin thighs soft cock blue eyes -- )_

 _\--_ and snorts derisively. “Did you want a cigarette?” Erik asks dryly. “Wine, or a book, perhaps?”

“Just a cigarette would be fine, thank you.”

True to his word, Erik does bring back cigarettes, but Charles still can’t quash the small twist of disappointment in his gut.

They eat breakfast on the beachside and dinner in Erik’s small kitchen, sometimes the baker’s place; they drink and smoke and read and argue. All the while, their friendship becomes more tactile.

At first, Charles thinks that he’s imagining it, but then he decides it’s just a consequence of their close friendship.

Over breakfast, Erik would rather slip his fingers into the spill of Charles’ sleeve, tug gently, than reach out with his mind or words to get Charles’ attention. After asking for a cigarette, Erik’s fingers brush against Charles’ palm as the cigarettes switch hands.

And in response, when Erik’s sprawled across his couch, flipping idly through a paperback novel, as Charles walks by from the kitchen to the balcony, Charles runs his fingers along the line of Erik’s shoulders, the fine strands of his hair.

In the evenings, in one shady bar or club or another, they sit close -- to ensure that no one overhears their conversations about mutants or mutation, of course. Charles begins to expect the feel of Erik’s body heat radiating off of him in waves.

Another time, they’re on Erik’s balcony, again. Tonight, the sunset is liquid amber, dark orange and burnt umber around the edges. In the orange light, Erik’s eyelashes and hair turn gold.

They’ve finished more than half a bottle of scotch between the two of them, and maybe some more. Charles’ mind buzzes comfortably and the city is particularly restless tonight: the artist living in the flat below them throws brown paint onto a canvas as though he is Jackson Pollock; the carpenter in his shop a few floors below saws through a piece of hardwood vigorously; on the ocean, a fisherman wrestles with a particularly strong catch.

Neither of them has had a smoke yet tonight, and Charles rubs his hands against the metal of his chair with nervous energy. Abruptly, he stands and heads back into the flat. “I’ll be back,” Charles calls out.

When Charles returns almost an hour later, Erik’s still sitting on the balcony, twisting his metal coin in between his fingers. The front door clicks shut behind Charles with a flick of Erik’s wrist.

“Find what you were looking for?” Erik asks as Charles returns to the balcony.

Charles lights his joint with a grunt, settling into his chair, which is already molded to the shape of his body. The smell of reefer soon fills the air, and Charles exhales happily, kicking his feet up onto the railing.

“Care for a hit?” Charles asks, dangling his joint carelessly when he sees Erik watching him.

“Not particularly,” Erik looks away.

“But you’ve never before,” Charles folds his legs back in, puts his left foot on the ground, and then his right foot. He stands and makes his way across the balcony. He stops in front of Erik’s chair and waits until Erik looks at him before continuing. “Just one puff.”

Erik raises an unimpressed eyebrow. The sun limns Erik’s face in gilded light, falling artfully over the curve of his throat, his collarbones.

“Here,” Charles says, smiling, “I’ll hit it for you.”

Charles sucks in, taking a good, long drag, holding the hot smoke in the back of his throat.

“What -- ” Erik begins, but Charles silences him by leaning in.

In Charles’ left hand, he holds what remains of the joint, his knuckles brushing against the arm of Erik’s chair. With his other hand, Charles reaches up to press two fingers against Erik’s stubble.

It’s just two mouths, two bodies, two shadows in another room in another city; it’s just another day in an entire summer. It’s just geometry -- the way the circles of their mouths meet, the angle formed when Erik spreads his legs to let Charles stand between them, the curve of Charles’ back as he bends over to touch Erik’s cheek.

Charles’ mouth slots neatly over Erik’s, and, like the sentimental fool he is, Charles closes his eyes as Erik’s mouth opens -- partly in surprise, partly in anticipation -- underneath him.

Two seconds is all it takes. The smoke is out of Charles’ throat and into Erik’s mouth so Charles pulls back, retracting his hand from Erik’s cheek and stepping out of the neat angle that the V of Erik’s legs create.

“There,” Charles says, remembering to act triumphant a second too late, “That wasn’t too bad, wasn’t it?”

Erik blows the smoke out into the air slowly. “You’re higher than a kite, Charles,” Erik says, almost fondly. His thoughts are already moving onto another train of thought, the incident years away. It’s just another memory in a lifetime.

Charles grins mechanically -- it’s just geometry, the curve of his lips, the stretch of his muscles, the adjacent squares of his teeth.

(It’s easier to pretend that he is.)

And there are other times, more subtle, but still tactile nonetheless.

Sometimes, Charles will reach out to adjust the ring of Erik’s collar, or the line of his sleeve. It’s meaningless, Charles tells himself. Erik never thinks much of it now, which is improvement at least -- compared to the very first day that they met, when even an aborted attempt to separate Erik and Zev sparked the fight in Erik.

Either way, Charles tries not to think much of it. It’s just another facet of their friendship that’s developed over the course of the summer, another way for Erik to convey his trust.

  
(But then again, things with Erik are never easy.)


	3. three

It’s strange how it seems as though they’ve known each other for so long, and yet Charles has failed to notice things about Erik until recently.

It’s the little things -- what did his professor at Oxford used to say? _The devil is in the details_ or some other antiquity like that -- that Charles notices, now more than ever.

In the mornings (when Charles is either hungover or asleep), after his run, Erik will walk through the streets of Tel Aviv until he arrives at a secluded bakery. He finds Nona and offers her metal trinkets and figurines in the shapes of animals, to her delight. If the baker’s car breaks down, Erik fixes it easily. If the shop is particularly busy, Erik stays to help knead dough, shape it into braids. He tells Nona stories in Hebrew and teaches her a few words in German.

A few times a week, he leaves for an afternoon to attend synagogue.

Sometimes, Charles will fall asleep with cigarettes in his fingers and books on his chest; when he wakes, his shoes are put neatly by the couch, his books on the table, his fingers free from ash.

And some mornings, Erik will make coffee, sweet and slightly bitter, exactly how Charles likes it. Other mornings, Erik will drag Charles off his couch and drive them to the edges of Tel Aviv, to a small shops and bookstores where Charles buys more sheet music and Erik buys more books. They spend days lost in music and literature.

One particular afternoon, Charles is soaking in the luxurious bathroom, the tub water silky with salt from the Dead Sea, when Erik barges in, carrying four stones from the Yarkon river. Much to Charles’ disappointment, the water has begun to cool. His skin is pruned and he feels irritable.

“A rock collector now, are you?” Charles cracks open an eye to watch Erik wash the stones in the porcelain sink. “Are you reading into the merits of being stoned to death? There are faster ways to kill people, as I’m sure you’d know,” Charles lashes out.

Erik turns around, his expression stony, _ha_ , with the rocks in his arms.

“Well?” Charles demands, tapping his cigarette and letting the ash fall to the floor. _I won’t clean that_ , Charles thinks loudly.

Without a word, Erik drops the stones into the tub.

In the back of Charles’ mind, he registers the fact that they’re iron-rich -- that’s how Erik floats them gently to the bottom of the tub -- but Charles’ teeth are ready to bite, and he sits up quick, yells, “Oi,” to Erik’s receding backside, “What the _hell_ , Erik?”

“Fuck off, Charles,” comes floating back.

“Genius,” Charles grumbles to himself, annoyed, as the iron-rich stones begin to heat. Within minutes, the silky bathwater is as warm as it was hours ago.

Though he’s controlled in almost all aspects of his life, Erik still gets angry, in his dreams. Charles often sleeps on Erik’s couch and sometimes, Erik’s anger brews like a storm in the middle of the night. Charles wakes up when Erik’s fear shatters the sky into splinters. (His body is still in time with the clockwork of the hunt.) On those nights, Charles drags himself off of the couch and shakes Erik until he wakes, sweat and confused and bleeding anger out of every cell in his body. (He’s dangerous.)

(Tel Aviv is a city of contradictions: the perfect swell of Erik’s lips and the metal in his mind, the softness of his skin and the blood on his hands. Charles has never been so conflicted on how he feels.)

Charles wonders if it’s the thrill of the chase that makes Erik so desirable. Charles wonders if it would still be like this -- if Charles’ eyes would still dilate every time Erik walked into the room, if Charles’ breath would still quicken every time their hands brushed -- if it were _easy_.

(But then again, nothing with Erik was ever easy.)

Because here’s the thing: as intoxicating as Erik is, they do not want the same thing. As lovely as things are at the moment, the summer is not endless, and they are two bodies in space, spiraling in opposite directions.

And yet, Charles still wants him -- how can Charles still want him? -- wants him so badly, wants to breathe him in like smoke and keep him inside.

 

* * *

  

They get drunk early one morning. Charles can’t remember for the life of him why, but the bottle’s there and they’ve nothing to waste except for time, so, with half a bottle of scotch each in their bellies, they head to the beach.

It’s a weekday and the sand is all but empty, everyone at work except for the bums on the beach.

Everything is golden -- the second of bottle of scotch that dangles in Erik’s hand, the morning sun, the burning sand. Charles yanks his towel out from around his neck when they hit the sand; neither of them is wearing shoes, so they walk straight down to an empty strip and put down their towels. Charles shucks off his shirt and Erik heads for the water.

Charles lazes in the sand, stripped down to his swimming trunks, belly warm against the towel. In the ocean, Erik floats shallowly, his face open to the sky.

Some time later, Erik climbs out of the ocean and Charles cracks open his eyes appreciate the way those wet swimming trunks cling to Erik’s thighs and arse. Erik situates himself on the towel next to Charles, his skin glistening with saltwater and sun. Everything is golden -- Erik’s skin, Erik’s hair, the burning sand -- and slow and languid.

How different things are now -- before, Erik could not smoke without pausing to catalogue every exit and every piece of metal within a one-mile radius. Now, they lie on the sand without a single worry. Granted, Erik’s powers continue to spread out -- his body still in time with the hunt: cataloging the metal of Charles’ watch, of the pacemaker several hundred yards away, the yacht off the coast -- but his muscles are lax and his eyes half-lidded.

“I’d like to go to the Dead Sea.”

Erik turns over and looks up at this. “Now?”

“Mm. Another time.”

“Alright,” Erik says, blinking his eyes slowly. They’re close, no more than a few inches between their bodies. Everything is slow, timeless, golden and preserved in the salty air. Charles wonders how horribly things could go if he kissed Erik right now.

Charles dozes off for a while longer while Erik stretches his powers, taking in the miles of telephone wire and miles of sewer pipes. Eventually Charles stretches, relishing the stretch of his muscles, and rises, sand falling off of his limbs and back.

He pads into the cool water and dunks his head under to wake himself up. When he comes back, Erik’s almost asleep, his back rising slowly and evenly as he breathes. His face is buried in his arms, away from the sun.

“Good?” Charles asks. He stands by Erik’s knees, dripping water onto the backs of Erik’s legs.

Erik swears lowly in German but other than that, does not move.

They haven’t had an argument or a debate or anything like that for a while, and Charles itches for a fight. When Erik continues to lie still, Charles huffs, and then spontaneously leaps down to sit on the tan expanse of Erik’s lower back, his icy-cold swimming trunks squelching when they hit Erik’s golden skin.

It’s like a switch has turned on: Erik lashes out, moving quicker than Charles can see, grabbing Charles by the shoulders and pinning him down, one warm knee on Charles’ chest --

 _It’s the thrill of the chase_ \--

Charles retaliates by reaching into Erik’s mind; a second later, Charles is standing next to the towel and Erik is on his back.

“Come on, you bum,” Charles smirks and turns away, heading back towards the street.

Erik lets out a huff of disbelief before following.

That night they go out. They walk for at least an hour, back and forth on the promenade, before Erik decides he wants a drink, so then they head to the nearest bar.

It’s already late by the time they enter, and the crush of people are loud and drunk and tactile; it takes several minutes to even reach the bar.

The bar is even louder, and immediately, Charles can tell that Erik would rather have found a smaller coffee shop, perhaps have some tea or maybe a game of chess.

(If he’s being honest, Charles would prefer the same.)

“Care for a dance?” Charles calls over his shoulder, carelessly, resolutely not imagining the two of them waltzing together. There’s a space in the middle of the bar where a crush of people have begun to sway.

Erik snorts, as if Charles is joking.

“Come on,” Charles smiles, ignoring the twist in his gut, tugging on Erik’s wrist entreatingly, “Just a few drinks.”

Erik relents and they find themselves a spot at the bar, where Erik raises his hand for a round.

“Can you imagine,” Charles says, picking up from where they left off, a conversation started some time ago, “All of them out there -- their isolation, their hopes, their ambitions. If we find them, we can help them.”

Erik sips from his drink. “You won’t get help from the humans.”

“We don’t need their help; we need their cooperation. If they -- if someone knew, imagine how easy it’d be to find others.”

“Identification,” Erik says, “That’s how it starts.”

“Excuse me,” a woman with auburn interrupts them, her hand against Erik’s sleeve, “Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn’t help but hear you speaking English -- I was wondering if you could help me -- ”

Erik glances up to look at Charles while the woman holds out a handful of Israel currency.

“That’s a lira,” Erik says, not unkindly. “That one, yes, that one’s -- ”

Even without his telepathy, Charles can tell the woman already knows the exchange rate between dollar and lira, but he sits quiet. A rush of jealousy swells in his belly and Charles forces it down.

“Thank you,” the woman says, smiling as she heads back to her group of friends at the other side of the bar.

“I think she was interested,” Charles says dryly as the woman leaves.

“It starts with identification,” Erik readjusts his grip on his glass, “And it ends with being rounded up, experimented on, eliminated.”

“She was pretty,” Charles says mournfully.

Erik downs the rest of his glass. “They’ll never be able to cooperate.” He nods to the bartender and asks for the bill. “If a new species is being discovered, it should be by its own kind, no one else.” The bartender slides the bill across the table and Erik moves to take it. “Are we finished?”

“I think I’ll stay a little while longer.”

Erik makes a noise of acknowledgement.

Charles waits until Erik leaves before heading to the other side of the bar.

“I say MCR1,” Charles says, tapping the woman’s arm. “You would say auburn hair.”

She turns around. “Oh, hello.”

“It’s a mutation, a very groovy mutation.”

The woman tilts her head. “Are you propositioning me?”

“Are you saying no?”

“Where’s your friend?” she asks.

“He left.”

“Too bad,” she says.

“Believe me,” Charles grimaces. “I know.”

She smirks knowingly.

They make it back to Charles’ hotel room shortly after that, where Charles pins her to the brown comforter, shimmies down until he can pull off her knickers with his teeth. He licks and bites and kisses her cunt until his lips are slick and they’re both thoroughly out of breath, then proceeds to rub her with his thumb until she comes with a shout.

“Well,” she breathes out happily. “That was lovely.” She reaches out for his belt. “Did you -- ”

Charles purses his lips and reaches up to his temple.

“Shit, sorry,” her hand retracts and she frowns. “My friends are probably wondering where I am, do you mind if I -- ”

“No, of course,” Charles nods.

She rises and stretches and then snatches up her panties from where Charles had tossed them. “Thanks for the night, love.” She pats his cheek. “Safe trip back.”

“You too,” Charles says as the door opens and shuts.

For a while, Charles sits there.

He doesn’t think about it at first, can’t think about it. His hand stutters down his chest, slips underneath his hips, and the first touch causes Charles to bite down on his mouth. Then thinks of Erik -- of course he thinks of Erik -- and he fumbles for the tiny bottle of Vaseline in the bedside cabinet, slicking his fingers up messily.

He pumps himself, once, twice, four times, then flops over onto his belly, bringing his pillow close with one hand and reaching down with the other, slipping one, two, four fingers into himself, stretching himself out as he bites down on the pillow and tries to stifle his moans.

He finishes quickly and wipes himself off on the sheets.

Then he eventually flicks off the light and falls into an uneasy, restless sleep.

 

* * *

 

It’s the same argument. Just another day, another attempt at rhetoric.

(Charles has been on edge for a while.)

“We have it in us to be the better men, Erik,” Charles says, pacing back and forth, bare feet dragging against the dirty carpet of his hotel room. The thick curtains are drawn shut, and sunlight leaks through the cracks into the room. It’s musty and slightly warm. Charles has been deliberately provocative for the past few days, and today is no exception.

“We already are,” Erik says, flicking his cigarette butt onto the floor and crushing it with his dress shoe. Today he came to Charles’ hotel room wearing a dress shirt tucked into neatly pressed suit pants, his jacket slung over his shoulder. Charles does not ask where he went. “We’re the next stage of human evolution, you said so yourself.”

“No -- ”

“Are you really so naive as to think that they won’t battle their own extinction?” Erik stands as well, brushing off his pants. “Or is it arrogance?”

Charles raises his eyebrows, temper flaring. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve been provoking me, Charles.”

“So?” Charles says. His heart thumps loudly and Charles wonders if Erik can feel the iron in his veins.

“Didn’t you ever learn not to play with fire?”

“You think too highly of yourself, my friend.”

“And you?” Erik cocks a disbelieving eyebrow. He walks around the chair he was sitting in and moves across the room. “You don’t? You think that they won’t fight back?”

“You think us so superior -- ”

Erik laughs without humor. “You can’t even go a day without your powers, Charles.”

Immediately, Charles rises to the bait, drawing his thoughts away from Erik and shutting himself off. (He hadn’t realized how comfortable he’d grown in Erik’s head until now; it’s like dragging bones out of tar, it feels so different without the hum of Erik’s presence.)

“You see?” Erik stalks forward. “You’re powerless.” Erik tilts his head, a predator in consideration.

“What will you do about it?” Charles bites out. This close, he has to tilt his head back to look Erik in the eye.

And then Erik lunges forward, slamming Charles’ legs into the mattress.

Charles yelps and shimmies out of the way, knocking over a stack of vinyl records in the process, but Erik grabs him by the metal of his belt, dragging him back.

“You see?” Erik breathes out, eyes alight with amusement, pushing Charles against the mattress again, “You see how you fight?”

Charles gasps with shock when his back slams against the bed and tries to muster a laugh but Erik grabs him roughly by the hips, manhandling him onto the bed -- _clockwork set to the timing of the hunt_ \--

Charles tries to free his legs and knee Erik, tries to use his elbows and his teeth, but Erik has been fighting for his life since he was a child while Charles is fighting for an ideology he’s beginning to doubt.

Erik grunts when Charles slams his elbow into Erik’s chest. For a moment, Charles wriggles loose, but then Erik grabs his ankles, his knees, dragging him back. “Let me go!” Charles hisses, kicking and writhing. His blood pulses with adrenaline.

“You give up?” Erik rasps, his eyes dark, nails twisting into Charles’ knees.

“Never,” Charles snarls.

Erik grunts again when Charles reaches up to yank at Erik’s hair. Then Erik uses his knee to pin down Charles’ chest -- the smell of Erik is _everywhere_ , hot and heady and oppressive in Charles’ lungs -- and reaches up to grab Charles’ hands, jerk them up and slam them onto the metal wiring of the headboard.

“Oh, Christ,” Charles pants, when the metal clamps down on his wrists; his cock gives a twitch in his pants and Charles bucks his hips, trying to get Erik off his chest.

(He’s dangerous -- )

Erik slides his knee off of Charles’ chest so that Erik’s all but sitting on Charles’ belly, pinning him down. Both of their chests heave with exertion.

“Huh?” Erik breathes out, sliding back until he’s sitting across Charles’ hips. He leans over and when he speaks into Charles’ ear, Charles can feel Erik’s tongue against the curve of his ear, “How about now?”

And it’s like being struck by lightning; it’s a punch straight to the throat; he wants Erik so badly it fucking _hurts_ \--

There’s no way Erik can’t feel the obvious tent in Charles’ pants now.

“God,” Charles whimpers, “Erik, let me up, I -- ”

And then Erik is _laughing,_  a low, rumbling sound that feels like thunder this close, Erik’s chest pressed up against Charles’, their hips fitted together. The metal wiring of headboard slides off of Charles’ wrists, smooth as water.

“Fucking Christ,” Charles snaps, his face red and his entire body trembling with embarrassment. He pushes Erik off and Erik moves out of the way smoothly. Charles swings his legs over the edge of the bed -- “Charles, come on,” Erik says -- and when Charles stands his legs quiver; he turns away to hide his erection, yanking down his shirt, completely humiliated, when Erik reaches out, grabbing his wrist with that same iron grip.

Erik, who is sitting on the edge of the mattress, pulls Charles back, tugging sharply so that Charles all but falls into Erik’s lap.

And suddenly, Erik’s mouth is hot against Charles’ temple. “Is that all you’ve got, Xavier?” A large hand reaches down to squeeze the bulge in Charles’ pants roughly, “Are you going to give up?”

Anger rises up suddenly and Charles lets it saturate every pore in his body; he spins them around -- Erik lets out a quiet breath of surprise -- and he’s shoving Erik back down to the bed, rocking his body against Erik’s, and then Erik’s groaning loudly --

The room is swelteringly hot and Charles’ cock throbs; he’s mindlessly rutting against Erik and he doesn’t think he can stop.

Charles fumbles with the buckle of Erik’s belt, pawing at the zipper; and then he’s shoving at his own pants, his underwear, pushing them off in his haste to get close, to touch, to fuck --

Erik watches, his pupils blown, as Charles sticks three fingers into his mouth, wetting them quickly and unromantically, and then reaching down wrap three fingers around Erik’s flaccid cock, pumping roughly until Erik’s hard.

“Take off your shirt,” Erik rumbles, and Charles complies without even a blink of his eyes.

And then Charles reaches down to grab Erik’s cock with his spit-slick hand, guiding it to where he’s still loose from last night.

He misses the first time, and Erik groans when the head of his cock slips. Charles pants and tries again. Sweat slips into his eyes. In the back of his head, he briefly registers the fact that Erik’s still completely clothed.

This time, he sinks down, and it’s tight because Erik is enormous, even when Charles is slick and open from yesterday.

“Fuck,” Charles whispers, and his chest aches; because he’s _angry_ with himself that Erik’s here, like a whore to be taken, willing and compliant and Charles _still wants him._ (Is it still the thrill of the chase?)

He thinks of that pig farmer, and how Erik had butchered him and _enjoyed it_ ; thinks about that metal that tore through Shaw’s mind, the deaths, the blood, this murderer, everything that Charles stands against --

And he thinks of Nona at the bakery, and how these same hands have kneaded challah bread, these same hands trembled when they first shaped metal railings into ivy vines.

This is Erik laid out bare and Charles still wants him and it’s terrible and it’s wonderful and it’s angry --

(It's a contradiction -- )

And Charles sinks down, his body clenching around Erik’s cock until he’s snug around the base. Then he starts rocking, slow and rough and insistent, his hands fisted in the sheets on either side of Erik’s neck, his head hanging low, lips brushing against Erik’s forehead.

“Charles,” Erik breathes out, lowly.

It’s just geometry: the curve of Charles’ back as he rides Erik slowly, the angle of his knees, bent and splayed out on either side Erik’s chest. Just the slow rock of Charles’ hips, the ragged pants of Erik’s breaths; it’s intoxicating, the heat of the room, the heat of their bodies, and Charles rides Erik until he’s exhausted, his knees and his stomach muscles trembling.

Erik comes with a stuttered groan, and Charles wraps a wet hand around his cock as an afterthought, tugging on himself unkindly, until he splatters out on Erik’s chest.

Charles collapses at Erik’s side with a huff.

The bed is much too small for the two of them but Charles can’t even think about moving at the moment, so Charles’ knees knock against Erik’s and his sticky chest presses against Erik’s shoulder.

He doesn’t remember when he falls asleep, blanketed by the smell of Erik and the hot Israeli humidity.

 

* * *

 

Charles wakes up a splitting headache. His entire body hurts and there are bruises around his wrists, on his hips.

On his way to the bathroom, he nearly trips over the sheets, which are strewn across the floor like used tissues. He dunks his head into the sink and splashes water over his face. When he looks up in the mirror, he looks like he’s been mauled. There’s still traffic honking outside and the world -- including the bright sun -- is indifferent to his suffering.

Charles moans pitifully.

For a moment, he considers staying in the hotel today.

Eventually, he cleans up, drags himself out of the house, and into the city.

Erik’s reading on the couch when Charles enters his flat. A chessboard is set up on the coffee table.

“Care for a game?”

Charles settles down on the floor, on the other side of the table. He suppresses a wince as he sits. Erik makes the first move.

They’ve made a few moves each. Erik reaches out to grab a pack of cigarettes.

Charles wonders when he will muster the courage to ask, “And what now?”

Not now, apparently.

They play in silence, until Erik captures Charles’ rook.

“Checkmate,” Erik says.

“Cheater,” Charles says automatically.

 _Childish_ , Erik thinks, but it’s amused, and Charles forces himself to laugh. They play a few more games and Charles suggests they go to the beach, where they bum around and smoke for a few hours, before coming back and reading for the rest of the evening. Charles says goodnight and leaves, goes home. Sleeps.

 

* * *

 

They fall into orbit with one another, effortlessly.

(Not the same orbit, just two paths that happen to intersect -- just geometry -- for a little while, then split off again, in their different directions. Charles does not want to think about what will happen when the summer ends.)

They don’t talk about it, but it must be there somewhere -- somewhere in their intermingled thoughts, the canvas of their interactions -- something that holds both of them back. God knows that Charles has his reservations. Erik has his reasons as well.

Things with Erik Lehnsherr are never easy.

 

* * *

 

Another morning:

They’re playing chess in the middle of Erik’s spacious living room. The curtains are splayed open and white sunlight pours into the room. The city hums beyond the balcony.

They’ve already finished a few games (Charles can’t remember how many; he never remembers how many) when Erik looks up suddenly, his mind quiet.

Charles blinks. “What?”

“Would you mind,” Erik begins, turning his silver coin, over and over again in his pocket. “If I interrupted our game?”

Charles frowns. “Whatever for?”

Erik moves forward suddenly, leaning over the board, taking Charles’ cheek in one hand, leaning in to kiss him.

It’s -- unexpected.

Charles makes a noise that’s half shock and half pleasure, opens up automatically under Erik’s touch. Impossibly easy, is what it is -- letting Erik’s breath mingle with his, letting Erik pry him open.

With a sweeping gesture, Erik pushes the board aside easily, and when his mouth meets Charles’ again, they both pretend that Erik’s lips don’t tremble.

The coffee table between them makes it awkward for their mouths to meet, their bodies forming a triangle of sorts over the chessboard, hips digging into the hard edges of the table.

“Wait,” Charles breathes out, right after Erik slides his tongue into Charles’ mouth -- and how tentatively Erik kisses -- “Let me -- ”

How strange, that even though it’s only their mouths meeting, both of their skins are flushed and their chests are rising sharply. Charles pulls back and steps on the table; Erik tilts his head back to look up at Charles. Through Erik’s thoughts, Charles sees himself: tall, proud, flushed -- _skin skin cock eyes fuck feel._

Almost quicker than Charles can see, Erik reaches out -- two arms around Charles’ waist -- and _yanks_ , pulling Charles into his tight, his rough, embrace, and then Erik’s spinning them around, dropping Charles onto the couch with a soft plop.

Charles’ body lands mostly on the couch, and Erik’s weight drapes over him; Charles only gets a second to appreciate the aesthetics of it all -- the white sunlight pouring over their skin, the delicious curve of Erik’s spine, the soft color of Erik’s bottom lip -- before they’re kissing roughly again.

The warm wet heat of Erik’s mouth, the insistent press of his heavy hips, the thick scent of him -- it’s all wonderful, so Charles isn’t exactly sure why he thinks: _is that how it is then?_

Erik’s grabbed one of Charles’ knees, the shape of Charles’ spread legs already painted across the surface of his thoughts, when Erik finally registers the thought.

“What?” he rasps, breaking away from Charles’ mouth.

Charles didn’t mean to broadcast the thought, but he asks aloud, “Is this how it is?”

Erik purses his lips, his red mouth flattening into a line.

Charles scoots back automatically; he doesn’t know why his temper suddenly flares. “You fuck me, and then we don’t talk about it again?”

A muscle in Erik’s jaw twitches.

Charles knows that he’s pushing Erik; he’s seen shadows of the man’s dreams -- _black smoke pink triangle silver metal bone flesh blood never again_ \-- but Charles is addicted to the rush, the thrill; it’s so _good_ and he can’t stop, won’t stop, doesn’t want to stop.

“Are you going to lie there and take it?” Erik snaps, and Charles bursts out with an incredulous laugh. He pushes Erik off easily, padding into the kitchen. Charles ignores the tendril of guilt curling in his belly.

(He doesn’t know which one of them it comes from.)

Several minutes pass. Erik straightens up and disappears out on the balcony. In the kitchen, Charles pours himself a drink and lights a cigarette. Inhales slowly, sucks in and in and in. Exhales. Smoke curls into the kitchen, tastes a bit like regret.

Charles eventually wanders out on the balcony.

“Cigarette?” he offers Erik. Erik takes it and Charles lights it for him. They sit on the balcony, lost in their own thoughts, for a while, until Charles takes his leave.

(It’s the chase, the complexity, that Charles loves -- it’s not easy but Charles has never been one to shy away from a challenge.)

When Charles exits Erik’s flat, the sun has begun to set, and a cigarette dangles in his mouth. He goes to the beach and walks along the sand, his toes curling into the wet beach as he makes his way back to his hotel. He looks into the sea and thinks, briefly, of Erik.

For a moment, Charles considers entering a bar. The thought loses appeal quickly and Charles returns to the hotel, twirling his cigarette in his fingers and thinking of nothing in particular.

A cool breeze drifts into the hotel room when Charles returns. The curtains are still thrown open and Charles itches for a drink. He ends up curling up on the small queen-sized bed with a thin paperback, his vision steadily growing blurrier and blurrier until eventually he relents: he shuts the book and puts it aside, then flicks off the bedside lamp.

 

* * *

 

They sleep together two more times before the summer ends.

The first time:

Charles perches on the edge of the balcony. It seems like another lovely night, another beautiful sunset. In his hand, a bottle sloshes.

Music plays on the record player; Erik has chosen jazz today.

With a hum, Charles pushes himself off the balcony, swaying into the living room. He hums along under his breath and reaches out with his mind, taking Erik’s thoughts in his own.

It’s always strange, the meeting of two minds, but even more so when one of them is intoxicated. Charles runs his thoughts along the line of Erik’s mental barricade -- Charles wants to lay siege to that barrier, beleaguer the miles of wall that Erik has erected, has put between them; Charles wants to tear them down, viciously -- over and over in a drunken pattern, whispering into the cracks, swirling his thoughts potently. It doesn’t take long before both of them are drunk.

“You’re incorrigible,” Erik murmurs, rising up from his seat to move towards Charles.

“Only with you, my friend,” Charles replies easily, coming up to stand in front of him. Erik’s expression is unreadable but his thoughts are a dark storm -- _metal bone wrist pink Charles fuck feel taste_ \--

It’s hard to tell which one of them reaches out first; their minds are intertwined loosely and they’re both intoxicated with one thing or another. Perhaps they reach out together, meeting in the middle.

But Erik’s the one that sweeps Charles close with an arm, one hand curling firmly around Charles’ waist and the other reaching out to clasp one of Charles’ hands loosely. The question floats, half-formed into Charles’ mind.

“May I?” Erik asks, but they’re already swaying in time to the music.

Maybe Charles asks, the thought melting into Erik’s mind through osmosis, or maybe the idea suddenly resurfaces in Erik’s head.

“I learned to dance in Romania,” Erik says. Sweat sheens on his temple and Charles wants to taste it.

“Is that so?”

Erik hums with the record player. He leads them smoothly, his long strides enough to make Charles breath heavily with exertion, sweeping them across the wooden floor and golden sunlight.

Through their telepathic link, Charles receives an image of a man with dark eyes and a swastika embroidered on his sleeve -- _teeth metal cut scratch kill kill kill_ \-- quickly replaced by an image of ancient castles rising from green pastures, spiked turrets piercing the bellies of fat, dark clouds, mountains rising and falling like uneven breaths.

“I tracked him down to Hunedoara,” Erik explains. The last dregs of sunlight fall on Charles’ skin but pales in comparison to the touch of Erik’s wrists, his palms, his breath. “He was scheduled to attend a ball, and so, naturally.” Erik shrugs.

“I find that hard to believe,” Charles remembers to reply, his bare feet brushing against Erik’s ankle as they sway towards the balcony, then back again.

Erik loves stories and literature, perhaps even more than Charles. Where Charles enjoys science and reasoning, Charles often sees Erik curl up with a classic novel, often catches whispers of childhood dreams in his mind.

Erik’s only defense is a breathy chuckle.

The sun’s beginning to dip below the horizon, slow and warm and languid, not unlike the evening air and the pace of their waltz.

Erik readjusts his grip, sliding his hand firmly across Charles’ back, until his fingers barely graze the base of Charles’ spine; Charles tilts his head forward, hovering in the corner of Erik’s neck, and it feels like acquiescence.

The music dies with a stutter and Erik pulls Charles close, his breath hot against Charles’ cheek. Charles tilts his head back, just slightly, enough to see the pale color of Erik’s lips.

He waits for Erik to kiss him, but instead, Erik tightens his grip on Charles’ hips -- both of his hands have wandered down there -- and tugs sharply, causing Charles to exhale loudly in surprise.

“I -- ” Charles starts, but then Erik shifts and _oh_ , that’s the line of Erik’s stiffening cock and suddenly, Charles wants.

Both of their thoughts turn a shade darker, so it’s a surprise to neither of them when Erik spins them around and walks Charles backwards into his bedroom.

Metal -- in the springs of the mattress, the frame of the bed, the headboard -- arches up to catch Charles when he plops onto the sheets. Erik’s over him in an instant, knees on either side of Charles’ hips, leaning down to kiss Charles roughly.

Metal -- in the buckles of their belts, the teeth of their zippers -- undoes itself quietly and Charles whimpers when Erik turns him over, taking his hands and placing them on the headboard. The metal headboard wraps around Charles’ wrists and it feels like that first time, the metal exerting the exact same amount of force as Erik’s grip did when they touched in that alley.

Erik fucks him like that, Charles’ knees twisted in the sheets, hands twisted in the metal wiring of the headboard, his head hanging low and his arse high in the air. Erik fucks him without hesitation and when Erik comes, he bites into the skin where Charles’ neck meets his shoulder, fingers fisting almost painfully in Charles’ hair.

When the metal headboard finally lets go of Charles’ wrists, Charles collapses onto the pillows beneath him in a shaking mess, sobbing loudly when Erik finally, _finally_ , wraps his sweaty palm around Charles’ cock, lets Charles come and come and come.

“Why?” Charles will ask, much much later, when they’ve finally finished cleaning up and made their way back to the rumpled bed. Erik doesn’t need to ask to know that Charles refers to their dance out in the living room.

Erik answers simply, “Because, before, you asked.”

And the second time (the last time):

It’s just another day in the summer, perhaps in the middle, maybe towards the end. During their time together in Tel Aviv, they’ve both stayed in the city and traveled beyond -- the latter perhaps only in their minds, but who is to say that that isn’t real? They have the memories, after all.

(They’ve taken a yacht out on the Mediterranean Sea, neither of them knowing how to sail, floating across the turquoise waters to white, sandy islands underneath a bright yellow sun.

The ocean in Charles’ mind is always serene.

They’ve driven to Jerusalem, to soak in the sights and the history and the sounds and the mosques there; they’ve floated in the Dead Sea and spent years smoking on Erik’s balcony, discussing ideas for the future and the world; they’ve attended a performance by the Israel Philharmonic and they’ve lost hours in the jungles of each other's minds.)

The day’s almost come to a close: they’ve stumbled back from a bar on the promenade and are in Erik’s flat. The window’s thrown open and the gossamer curtains whisper amongst themselves. The flat is dark and both of them are drowsy and complacent with alcohol.

Erik falls asleep first, his mind going mute a few minutes after he nestles himself on his bed, not even crawling underneath the sheets.

For some time, Charles sits on the balcony, chainsmoking cigarettes, thinking.

When he finally pads back into the flat, he decides to clamber into Erik’s bed on a whim -- the couch is uncomfortable and hot -- climbing into the space left on the bed.

Erik’s mind -- lingering between consciousness and sleep: his thoughts are too absurd and surreal to be anything but dreams, and yet they are too focused and sharp not to be conscious -- reaches out, almost hesitantly, to Charles.

Charles doesn’t know when he falls asleep, but when he wakes, he wakes slowly, his mind registering the soft quiet warm hum of arousal emanating from Erik’s mind. Charles wakes with his hips rutting against the hard line of Erik’s back, his open mouth against the back of Erik’s neck.

Erik makes a low noise and shifts, rolling over.

The sex is so, so good: the windows are open and sea salt is in the air, on Charles’ skin, on Charles’ tongue; the air is warm and soft but Erik’s touch even softer still. Erik rolls them both over and they make love together like that -- soft and slow and sleepy.

 

* * *

 

The summer comes to an end, like all things do.

(The summer comes to a fork in the road and they must take their paths. They just happened to have an intersection in their orbits, and now is the time for them to split off again, in their separate directions.)

August draws to a close, quietly, and Charles plans to fly out the day before September. He doesn’t ask where Erik will go.

The day of his flight, Charles wakes early. He makes his way to Erik’s apartment, and from there, they walk to a cafe on the promenade. They eat breakfast and Charles relishes his shakshuka. They talk about literature and music and mutants before they head back. Erik offers to drive Charles to the airport.

Charles hadn’t brought much to begin with, so it’s easy to load his small pack onto the motorcycle and drive off to the terminal. Erik walks Charles to the entrance. It’s early; there’s hardly anyone around.

Here is where they leave each other. Here is the ending (perhaps the beginning) and here, Erik lifts the corner of his mouth in a small smile. Charles sucks in a sharp breath; he wants to apologize -- for what, he doesn’t know, maybe for leaving, maybe for the things he couldn’t say -- but Erik reaches out first, takes Charles’ hand and presses a metal coin there.

Before Erik can step back, Charles pulls him close. For a moment, Charles thinks he’ll kiss the other man, but then something changes, maybe in the line of Erik’s mouth or the shade of his thoughts, and Charles cups his hand around the back of Erik’s hand, fingers brushing against the fine hairs there, and presses his mouth against Erik’s temple.

_Skin soft blue eyes silver bone Charles Charles Charles --_

He steps back, clearing his throat.

“Goodbye, my friend.”

“Goodbye, Charles.”

  
When Charles reaches into his pocket, long, long after Erik drives away, he presses his finger against the metal coin. It fits perfectly into the print of his thumb.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8014762) and [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/214119/chapters/321269).


End file.
